From the Mixed Up Files of Riddle Master's Muse
by Riddle Master 101
Summary: Humor and Drama and Adventure, oh my!  Stories, drabbles, and long winding narratives from all across the realm of fandom.  Includes Harry Potter, Supernatural, Big Bang Theory, and Merlin.
1. Introduction

Once upon a time…

Well, fan fiction doesn't usually start out that way, does it? Unless it's the fantasy genera, but that's a whole different solar system. Of course, most fan fiction doesn't start with introductions, either, so…

For those of you who want to just skip to the actual stories, here is the import info on this fic: **ONE**: it deals with multiple different fandoms, with only a few crossovers. Just because this is listed under Harry Potter crossovers _does_ _not mean_ that most of the stories will be from there. It just happened to be the dominate one right now. **TWO**: The fandoms are: Harry Potter, Supernatural, Merlin(BBC series), Good Omens, and Lord of the Rings. Possible crossovers include , Harry Potter/Supernatural, and Supernatural/Assassin's Creed. _This list will change as I write stories and update this fic._ **THREE**: if an A/N is at the beginning of the story, it has information necessary to understanding the story. If it is at the end, you can ignore it if so desired.** Alright, that's all the really important stuff. Feel free to skip the rest.**

The stories will be varying lengths. There are drabbles (although I have yet to get one under 200 words, so make that long drabbles); there are 'less than 1000' word stories; there are 'official short stories'; and there are 'stories long enough to be fics of their own'. Unless stated otherwise, these stories have no relation to each other or anything else I've written.

Some of the stories are character studies (or read like character studies). Some are written for the dialogue that takes place. Most are for a scene I've imagined and can't turn into a fic. There may be a very few which are pure description. You have been warned.

All ideas come from somewhere. I do my best to credit the source (mostly at the end, so it doesn't give the story away), but on occasion the story that the idea originated from is long gone by the time I manage to pin the idea down. If you recognize a unique idea you came up with and I _didn't_ credit you, please let me know!

As for the actual content of the stories: for the most part I'm trying to pin down an aspect of a character's personality. OC's may pop up, but since I usually don't like them they probably won't. There are attempts at humor (and epic failures at humor), floods of tragedy, eons of drama, and a whole hell of a lot of "wait, _what?_" 's. Not all of it will make sense, by any means of the phrase.

For the most part, these are a collection of ideas that refuse to consolidate themselves into a single plotline. Or any plotline whatsoever. They have no where else to go, and they refuse to leave me alone.

On that note, I'll accept any suggestions/challenges for stories that anyone cares to suggest. Want to see a favorite character deal with a certain situation and don't feel like writing it yourself? Just ask and I'll try.

And now, since I'm sick of writing an Introduction to a work of _fan fiction_, we're going to turn this into a Neil Gaiman introduction:

In Which a Great Many Things Go Wrong

The Great Hall was silent enough to hear a pin drop. They were attempting to summons DEATH, a very tricky business if you do not want to end up dead yourself. They had tried every possible other alternative—and each one had been an even greater failure than the last. There was no knowing how badly this one would turn out, but the pessimists (and statisticians) were gloomily listing the things they wished to take to afterlife.

They, of course, were the Order of the Phoenix; or rather, the Order after the second defeat of Voldemort. It had been decided among the remaining members that another Dark Lord might pop up some time, and they might have to save humanity from the evilest evil again. Hopefully, it would not be in their time, but someone had to pass on the knowledge of resistant movements to the next generation. And besides, it made for a rather nice club that met up for drinks about once a week. Nothing too difficult or dangerous about it.

Until another Dark Lord came along, that is. A whole hell of a lot sooner than any of them had predicted. And it really wasn't a "dark lord", more of a Dark God, who wasn't even from this time and planned on taking over the entire planet and enslaving humanity for his evil delight. And he probably would have succeeded, too, except that he decided to generate at Stonehenge, which Hermione (being the smart witch she was) had layered with observation spells due to the unusually intense leylines around the area—which could be used for this sort of dark, evil thing.

And even with this great adversary, it shouldn't have been that hard. _They_ had a _Hero_. The Hero could race out on an obscure quest which would help defeat the evil monster/god/thing. He and his faithful companions would beat the odds, fight a ragged, vicious battle against foes of unprecedented strength, and win in the end. Easy shmeezy…except for one minor problem.

The Hero wasn't into Hero-ing anymore. In fact, he had _had it_ with the whole damn business. Nope, he was _done_. Finis. And to actually prove that he wanted _nothing_ to do with the job _ever again_, he had done the unforgivable. He'd moved to America. Permanently. America: where no wizard dared to tread; where they slaughtered all things magical with a kind of gleeful vengeance. And no one was going after him.

So the Order: The Next Generation (as they were calling themselves) was in a bit of a bind. They had no Hero. They had no Quest. And they still had a Dark Lord (God) to defeat. And all their previous attempts to get rid of him had failed. Spectacularly.

(Possibly the greatest failure was when they had attempted to summons another God to take out the evil one. They had tried for a great warrior—they had wound up with Loki. Who took one look at the situation, widened his eyes to an incredible degree, and raised a fuss about how (unpronounceable name) wasn't supposed to even _be_ in this time period. He'd gone on to protest his summonsing, criticize all of their spell work, mock their abilities and ideas, pull a handful of pranks, and vanish in a shower of glitter all the while muttering something about "checking in on Luci to make sure _he_ wasn't part of this mess". Needless to say—and once they had transformed Neville back from being a toad and gotten rid of the nine chickens with one through ten painted on them (missing the number six)—they did not try that one again.)

And thus, they put together an insane enough plan to be worthy of Albus Dumbledore himself.

They were going to summons DEATH.

And so we bring our story back to the able-to-hear-a-pin-drop-Great-Hall, where the Order(TNG) waited with baited breath as Hermione Granger traced the last rune on the summonsing circle. Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley stood by with their wands touching the other two points on the inscribed triangle. Headmistress McGonagall (as well as a few of the other Hogwarts professors who were considered part of the Order or as good as) was poised to raise a barrier between the circle and the rest of the Order, should the need arise. With a roll of thunder from the enchanted ceiling, the summonsing circle flared red and it began.

Human minds differ greatly on what they picture or imagine, but if asked, any given member of the Order(TNG) was expecting more or less the same thing to happen: a great cloud of ghostly mist would swirl in the center of the summonsing circle, accompanied by the ringing of a bell. When it faded away, there would be an inhumanly tall figure in the middle, cloaked all in black (perhaps with a scythe, perhaps not). When he spoke, the words would roll out in a deep, tolling baritone. He would be fearsome, awe-inspiring, and utterly terrifying.

Well, the mist was more or less accurate. And there was a ringing sound, though it was high pitched, and more irritating than anything else. But they didn't get DEATH.

What they got instead were three humans.

Two of the three people landed on their feet. With movement that bespoke of long practice, they spun into a v-formation, scanning the scene in front of them with disbelieving, morbidly curious expressions. They were dressed in muggle clothes without a hint of magic on them, and carrying (now pointing) what appeared to be muggle guns at the ensemble.

"Sammy?" the shorter of these two asked, his _most-certainly-_not_-British-accent_ voice trailing off in a question.

"I have…no idea, Dean. Not a clue," his very tall companion answered, peering with wary curiosity at Neville (who was standing directly in front of him, but on the other side of the circle).

The third member of the group was a bit more like what the Order had expected…except, not really. He was dressed in a long, black robe (that it appeared to have an inner lining of an indistinguishable silver), and he had a wand in his hand along with a big, dark ring on his finger. But that was where the mystic presence ended, as the third member had landed in an undignified sprawling heap on his back.

"The _fu—_?" the wizard trailed off with a groan as he dragged himself up into a (still undignified) sitting position. He glanced around the room. "Oh no, no way in _Hell!_" he hissed in annoyance.

"Pretty sure this isn't Hell…" the shorter of the standing two (Dean, the Order identified) drawled with surprising, and worrying, conviction.

"No, no it is. It really is." The sitting wizard insisted with adamant belief.

Hermione caught sight of his face and gaped. The rest of the Order was too preoccupied with the standing two…_could they be muggles?_…to notice.

"Who are you?" Neville asked warily. The two men exchanged glances.

"Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester," Dean gestured respectively, "Who the Hell are you?"

"_Winchester!_" Hermione yelped, turning an exasperated glare on the still seated wizard, "Well congratulations on finding two individuals even more danger attracting than you to hang out with," she scolded. The wizard muttered indistinguishable curses under his breath and glared back.

"Winchester? As in the really dangerous Hunters from America? The ones who kill everything magical they run into?" Percy Weasley demanded in incredulous horror.

"We don't kill _everything_." Sam exclaimed, looking highly offended.

"'Really dangerous Hunters'? Damn Sammy, looks like we've got a reputation!" his brother grinned.

"Yeah, and how many times a week do you almost get killed and I have to save your asses?" groused the wizard from the floor.

"Shut up, just because you're the MoD—"

"The _what_?" George Weasley broke in to the ensuing rant.

"Master of Death," Sam replied absently, before trying to break up the string of insults flying back and forth.

"Oh, well I guess that's the problem," Hannah Abbot said with a mild sigh.

"Harry!" Ron groaned, finally catching on (and successfully halting the insults and gathering everyone's attention in the process), "What did you do _this time!_"

Mischief Managed

And there is your Harry Potter/Supernatural crossover. Congratulations on finishing the introduction and on with the stories!


	2. Treasure

**Title:** Treasure: to regard as something precious; to cherish.

**Category: ** Harry Potter

**Genera:** angst/friendship

**Rating**: **T**

**Words:** 861

**Characters:** Harry, Ron, and various other members of the Gryffindor Common Room.

0o0

It was a rather inconspicuous to look at. Just another present under the tree. And it certainly didn't draw attention to itself: rectangular, book-shaped, and wrapped in unassuming red-printed-with-holly paper and a green tie. No sparkling stars, moving reindeer, glittering silver bows—nothing that would make it stand out from its fellow presents. And there were a lot of those, too, piled higher and higher, all competing for most eye-catching (whether with spectacular colors or deliberate lack-there-of).

No, this present utterly failed to draw any attention to the fact that it was the most emotionally charged one under the tree. The forbidden present. The one no one even thought to look for…because the giver wasn't ridiculous, or shocking, or even unfathomable: he simply weren't even contemplated in the first place.

The large wrapped book (it was a book) sat meekly at the tree-side of the pile; close to the trunk, only visible after most of the other presents were removed and torn open. And torn open they were! Paper and ribbon littered the floor of Gryffindor Common Room; strings of tinsel covered everything; glitter exploded out like confetti from those packages that had the honor of being from Luna Lovegood; and Hermione's cat Crookshanks slunk and rolled through the chaos, making an even larger disaster than previously mentioned. Gifts were assembled into various piles—some people's orderly, most not. But who cared? It was Christmas! Sweets were consumed in unhealthy, delightful quantities, gifts were compared and tossed about, someone (Hermione, it was suspected) had charmed Christmas music to play, and there was a strong suspicion that Seamus had spiked the eggnog. It was a thoroughly joyous atmosphere.

Through it all, a sixth year student held himself apart from the raging chaos. Sitting by the window, his few—but highly appreciated—presents arranged almost too-neatly before him, he looked out at the enormous snowflakes falling gently from the sky. His beloved Weasley sweater (which he was wearing, of course) was black this year, with a small, white Grimm (the white sheep of the Black family). Ron had said it looked to solemn, but it was without question Harry's favorite to date.

"Oi, Mate!" his best-friend-turned-present sorter called from the tree, drawing his silent scrutiny, "Here, you missed one! Merlin-awful heavy…got someone aside from 'Mione sending you books?" Ron groaned as he 'lugged' it across the room and handed it to Harry. His attention having been momentarily distracted, Dean and Seamus took advantage of the situation to send charmed snowballs at Ron's head. With a shout of outrage, he wheeled around and took them down in a flying tackle. In the chaos that followed, everyone forgot about the unopened present and its receiver.

With great care, Harry picked up the present and turned it over in his hands. It _was_ heavy, tastefully—but boringly—wrapped, with only a small tag of "Harry" as an indication of who it was for. Gently, Harry undid the bow and slit the tape on the wrapping paper, unfolding the cover neatly and in perfect condition.

It _was_ a book. A very large, great book, in fact. Could rival any one of Hermione's given the chance, and that was saying something. Harry turned it slowly over to look at the front cover.

The Riverside Shakespeare it read. Harry felt his breath hitch. Very, very few people knew of his lover for the playwright's works—wizards hadn't heard of him—and of all those people who knew…well, 'Mione had already gotten him a book. And besides, this wasn't her style of wrapping, nor her handwriting, for that matter. Which left…

With shaking hands, Harry opened the front cover. The title page stood out in arcane writing, bold letters and calligraphy intertwined. And on the left—on the blank hard inside cover—_yes!_ It was from…!

Harry drew a shaking breath, pulling his knees up closer to his chest even as he traced the inscription with work-worn fingers. He cradled the book as close as he could while still being able to read the dedication. He'd never expected—especially something so…—and sure he'd sent a gift of his own, but—well, he _was_ the impulsive, emotional Gryffindor!—to get something in return…!—_And _something so…so…perfect and touching and, and, AND!

Meaningful. Something so meaningful. Closing the cover and clutching the book to his chest, Harry sank back into the shadows, out of the limelight. The world didn't need him today. And it was probably best if no one noticed him until he had his emotions under control; and with the inscription charmed for-his-eyes-only (and the fact that the paranoid sender hadn't done so meant…_meant_…_!_).

He held the book close, as if it could make him closer to the giver, curled up next to that forbidden dream. The world would force them farther and farther apart, and no one would condone this…friendship? relationship?

But for tonight, it was enough for Harry to know that he wasn't the only one of the two of them who cared.

"HJP:

'But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.'

And

'We are such stuff as dreams are made on,'

Merry Christmas,

TMR."

0o0

**A/N:** The glitter from presents and the tinsel comes from Silver Wolf's Luna Lovegood (in her two renditions of "Twelve Days of Christmas")

Note that this story was not written with slash in mind. It can certainly be read that way, but from my point of view, this is just really deep friendship, possible mentor-ship.

As for some sort of background to this scene…no idea whatsoever. Make it up.


	3. Another Day, Another Fugly

**Title**: Another Day, Another Fugly

**Category**: Supernatural

**Genera**: humor/drama

**Rating**: **M** (language and violence)

**Words**: 1473

**Characters**: featuring bamf!Dean, bamf!Sam, and numerous guest stars.

**A/N**: **Very quick explanation****:** happens after the apocalypse, and the characters that are supposed to be dead are from another universe. More at end of story.

0o0

"Right" Dean exclaims with an exasperated sigh, wiping the dripping blood from his face, "Three vampires and a few werewolves…"

He dodges a swiping claw, "…a couple" _grunt_ "damn"_ thud_ "ghosts!"

_Shriek!_

"Oh look, a banshee, fan-fucking-tastic!" he groans, firing four (salt) rounds in its direction—hey, it might work at killing the blasted thing—with his shotgun and knifing a passing werewolf.

"Dean _duck_!" Sam yells behind him. Dean obligingly tackles a revenant to the ground, stabbing it with his (silver) knife, while Sam fires three (silver) shots over Dean's head and takes out another charging werewolf. Grumbling curses under his breath, Dean turns towards the familiar face of Caleb and accepts the offered hand up—only to dodge out of the way a second later when the _most-certainly-_not_-hunter_ attempts to stab him with a knife. Dean raises his own knife in retaliation and the creature shifts and takes off running. Dean doesn't bother to peruse: it will be back and there are plenty more fish to fry—er, monsters to kill.

"A cursed shape-shifter who's confusing the Hell out of everyone," he continues his litany as if he hadn't been interrupted, "and…_Sam, Jo, look out!_" he shouts, firing a few (useless) shots at the wendigo that had snuck up on the hunters. Fortunately, Jo has a flare gun (how she obtained it, he does not know) and manages to set the damn thing on fire. One less fugly in the fray.

"Dad!" Sam gasps, and Dean turns in time to see John being tumbled head over heals by something very large and invisible.

_Uh oh_

Ellen, Dean, and Caleb—he assumes it is the real Caleb, seeing how this one _isn't_ trying to kill them—fire salt rounds at the 'air' directly above John. An unearthly, howling shriek splits the night, and the beast dies…fortunately remaining as insubstantial as it was invisible. John leaps back to his feet and nods his thanks, before returning to the chaos.

"And if there are _hellhounds_ roaming around, then it's not a far stretch to assume that there are also demo—" Dean's rant abruptly cuts off as he wheels around and comes face to face with a human he doesn't know. Speak of the Devil.

"_Cristo!"_ he snaps, and unsurprisingly its eyes bleed to black. He raises his knife and both of them freeze: the demon in fear and Dean in remembering only too late that Bobby has Ruby's knife. A slow, leering smirk crosses the demon's face as it realizes that Dean can't kill it, and in a move to fast to follow it lunges for his throat…!

…only to be brought up short by a hand firmly grasping _its_ throat; a hand suddenly emanating bright, white light. The no-longer-occupied body is released and slumps to the ground. Dean stares into the face of his (_not!_)guardian angel, trench coat pristine as ever.

"Hello, Dean," the angel intones lowly.

"That's pretty nice timing Cas," the hunter returns in a light tone, as if they are discussing the weather in a park.

They both ignore the suspicious glares that John, Caleb, and Jim throw in their direction, as well as Sam's fervent insistence that "No Dad, _don't shoot_, Cas is on _our_ side…yeah, I know he popped up out of no where, but really!" blurted out in intermittent intervals between monster killing. In fact, the entire battle could be imaginary, for all the attention they're giving it. It helps that the evil beasties are studiously avoiding the very-powerful-divine-being in their midst (until they can figure out just how dangerous this guy is and what to do with him) and subsequently avoiding Dean due to his extremely close proximity to Heaven's soldier.

"I thought you were very, very occupied with the pissing contest going on in 'Paradise' right now?" Dean asks, part curious, part sarcastic, and part in denial of knowing _exactly_ where this conversation is going to go.

"I am," Castiel replies solemnly, as usual failing to elaborate.

"Then why are you down here? Now, you know, and not an hour ago when this," he makes a sweeping gesture to the chaos surrounding them, "started?" still stubbornly refusing to consider the implications of Cas's presence on the battle field. Because really, the demons are bad enough.

"Raphael blames you and your brother for the failure of the apocalypse. As he most heavily resents my aid to you, he concentrates his assassination efforts mainly on me. However, he received word that the 'entities of evil'," and here Cas uses air quotes, much to Dean's private amusement, "had decided to for once and for all eliminate you and Sam, and decided the opportunity was too good to pass up."

"What do you mean, 'too good to pass—'" Dean begins, resigning himself to the inevitable and already looking around for the blasted feathery dicks. His attention is quickly drawn back to Cas when the angel makes an aborted movement—eyes focused on Sam, who is struggling with a person of inhuman strength. And if it were a demon, Sam would have ganked it already. _Shit._

Raphael's crony draws back to finally smite Lucifer's vessel…and Castiel's arm whips forward, his sword buried in the other angel's chest a moment later. A brilliant light explodes from the baddy, leaving Sam (who had been rather resigned to dying…_again_) and the other hunters (who hadn't seen an angel, let alone one dying), in something of a state of shock.

Dean turns back to Cas only to find him already gone, half-way across the field and slamming into (assumedly) another angel. He works his way back into the fight and picks up his cursing where he left off.

"Hoards of demons all over the place," and here he is interrupted, cornered by a snarling demon rushing towards him on one side and a charging angel on the other. He takes a running dive at the last possible second and they smash into one another, a rolling ball of squawks, shrieks, and invisible feathers.

"Frickin' _angels_ popping up left and ri—"

He dodges away from a massive, swiping lamia, straight into the arms of a band of…ghouls, who squeal with glee only to be brought down by a series of shots a second later from…Bobby who in turn tosses Ruby's knife to Dean just in time for him to stab it through the heart of a…demon sneaking up behind him and Dean is suddenly slammed into and tackled by a…vampire who came out of absolutely _no where_, who struggles with Dean for a few precious seconds until it is decapitated by…Caleb, who doesn't even stop in his run and keeps going, hammering into the shapeshifter—knife straight through its heart—only to be nearly eaten by an enormous…_bear_, that is to say skinwalker, but it is shot by…Jim, who is simultaneously chanting an exorcism on a demon who is attacking…Ellen who is fighting to get to…Jo who is struggling with a…witch, who's casting curses on…John, who's grappling with a…_'nother _werewolf who was just seconds ago lunging at…Sam, who's trying to get to…Dean, who's…

…who's about to be _destroyed_ by a very gleeful demon—that is, until said demon suddenly sprouts an angel sword. Well, Dean always maintained that there was _one_ badass angel in Heaven who wasn't a dick.

"Thanks Cas!" he shouts over the general commotion.

"You're welcome, Dean," the angel replies nonchalantly, completely unfazed by the chaos and calmly smiting yet _another _demon. Yep, don't mess with the little nerdy dude with wings—and that most definitely includes his charge.

There is a faint lull in the battle around Dean, and he turns to Sam (who has finally reached him).

"So…here we are, fighting the denizens of Heaven and Hell, let's not mention the fuglies of Earth…" he fires three shots into a wailing ghost and knifes a passing demon while Sam takes down two more werewolves and another skinwalker. Dean turns a shit-eating, jovial grin on his brother.

"Does this scream 'Winchester Family Reunion', or what?"

Sam groans and rolls his eyes, pulling an epic combination of bitchface #27, _I cannot believe I'm related to you_, and #54, _where do you _get_ these ideas?_.

"Hilarious, _jerk_."

"Shut it, _bitch._"

Obligatory comments over, Sam rolls his eyes again and runs back into the shrieking, snarling, bloody, violent fray, Dean hard on his heels. Ellen and Jo are taking out the lamia, Jim is sparing with two vampires, Caleb is pummeling a poltergeist with an iron crowbar, Bobby and John are decimating the ghoul population while simultaneously bickering over every topic under the sun—er moon (including just who's responsible for the current state of affairs), and Cas pops up behind Dean to join in the demon smiting that he and Sam are engaging in.

Oh yes: _definitely_ a family reunion.

0o0

**Notes**: So…background for this story. After the apocalypse (and sometime in season 6 after Sam gets his soul back) something happens to an alternate Supernatural-based reality. For whatever reason, John Winchester, Jim Murphy, Caleb, and Ellen and Jo Harvelle are thrown into this post-apocalypse one. This is, obviously, before any of them in the other reality died.

I'm going with the idea that one reality is about a decade behind the other one, and up until this point all the events have been the same. So no apocalypse in John et. al.'s reality, and thus they don't know about the angels.

I'm also assuming that they've been here (in this reality) for a couple of weeks before this battle—enough time for the members of this reality to decide that they're not the latest lying scheme of Raphael or Crowley.

Oh, and it's the middle of the night on a full moon. Possibly also happening on Halloween. Just to specify in case it wasn't clear.

**Source**: silver ruffian's "Black Horse and a Cherry Tree". Dean makes some comment about when he, Sam, and John meet up for the first time and run into Meg…and how this is _obviously_ what happens at Winchester Family Reunions. My mind grabbed that idea and took it to the extreme—a sort of "see how many monsters and people the Winchesters consider relatives I can _throw_ into this thing".


	4. The Sun Also Rises

**Title**: The Sun Also Rises

**Category**: Big Bang Theory

**Genera**: Fantasy

**Rating**: T

**Words**: 602

**Characters**: Sheldor the Conquer (Sheldon) and Queen Penelope (Penny)

**Source**: Inspired heavily by SpaceAnJL 's "World of Wierdcraft" and "The Paladin Protocol", though a bit…darker than both.

0o0

Darkness encroached on all sides. The battlefield was writhing muddle of bodies and gore. Blood flew from severed limbs, screams drowned out screams, and overhead the dragon flew, wrecking devastation. Countless friends and enemies lay among the fallen, all equal in death.

A rallying cry echoed raggedly from hoarse throats as the Army of Light roused itself for a final, fatal blow.

Sheldor the Conquer, sorcerer and leader of the Hoard, leaned wearily on his long, thin sword. Perched on top of a small swell in the ground, he was able to gaze over his rapidly deceasing minions. There was very little fight left in them, though they were giving everything they had out of loyalty to their Lord (and, more importantly, their Queen). The battalion of female orcs was particularly vicious.

"How goes it?" Queen Penelope's voice, hoarse from shouting orders and curses, inquired wearily at his side. He looked slightly down on his barbarian warrior counterpart as she gazed up at him. There was blood dripping from various cuts and slashes over her body (as well as an ample dosage from her defeated enemies). Her armor was gorged and filthy. Her blond hair was wild and tangled almost beyond repair. She was covered in sweat and grime, and her eyes were hard with a grim determination. She had never looked more beautiful.

"Not well," he replied grimly. They took a moment to survey the battlefield, where the Army of Light was smashing through the ranks of the lower orcs. Everyone—friend and foe—ducked instinctively as the dragon swooped low over the raised pikes, showering the enemy forces with a river of flame. "We've lost all sense of order and formation, and, well…" he gestured helplessly at the broken remains of his minions.

The Queen sighed. The situation was indeed nasty, and there was very little hope they would survive. Too many people had set out to kill Sheldon the Conqueror this time, and instead of their usual mindless scramble, they'd actually banded together to achieve that goal. And from the looks of things, they were going to succeed. She frowned deeply. A daughter of the Clan of Those Who Ride Against the Wind did not give up that easily. The consort of Sheldor the Conquer did not give up so easily.

"You've still got your sword," she said in a soft, firm voice, "You're magic, you're remaining minions, and you've got me. That is more than enough to squish this rabble." His lips twitched.

"Far more than enough," he mused, eyeing her with steely resolve. He turned his eyes back to the horizon, where the light of a new day was beginning to seep over the horizon.

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" His head whipped back to hers, a fierce grin in place.

"Shall we, my Queen?" he made a mock attempt to offer his arm. She pretended to grab his elbow, while hefting her battle-ax.

"A new day and possibly the end of the world as we know it," he murmured, lighting his sword with blue flames while swinging it in a quick twirl, "Indeed, what are we waiting for?"

They shared a long look. It could have been interpreted as grim determination, as a show of courage, as a final, romantic goodbye. Mostly, it was just competitiveness combined with a more than a hint of bloodthirstiness.

With that, they charged down the hill at a dead sprint into the arriving tide of the opposing army. Blood sprayed, limbs flew, swords gleamed and screeched on one another. The air was heavy with the taste of magic.

And the sun rose.

A new dawn.

0o0

**A/N:** So basically, just finished SpaceAnJL's fantastic interpretation of Sheldon as his World of Warcraft counterpart, as well as her story involving him LARPing. Blew my mind, and I had to jot this one down. You can interpret it as you like (perhaps it's the game, perhaps it's an alternate fantasy universe), but ultimately it's Sheldon and Penny facing down a challenge.

Happy Halloween!


	5. Not the Way it's Supposed to Work

**Title: ** Not the Way it is Supposed to Work

**Category: ** Merlin (BBC series)

**Genera:** humor

**Rating**: K

**Words:** 351

**Characters:** Merlin, Arthur, some bad guys and some knights

**A/N:** A reveal fic…sort of.

0o0

Grimacing, the sorcerer ducks as the Current-Evil-Creature-of-the-Week™ makes another swipe with its massive tail. The fight is _not_ going their way, and with half of the knights already dead (and Sir Leon presumed dead but probably just unconscious), it is becoming pretty obvious that swords are not going to work on this thing. Which leaves magic. Lovely, just lovely. _Not_ the place or time he wants to reveal this, but clearly fate has other plans.

With a withering sigh, the sorcerer looks around to judge the situation. Evil beastie, check. Remaining knights too preoccupied with said beastie to be in the position to kill him right away, check. And where is…oh, right, _there_ he is. That damn thing is killing people left and right, and he thinks it is a _good_ idea to try and get closer to it? Here we go…again (sigh).

The sorcerer wheels around so that the monster is the only thing in his sight (and hopefully so that the others cannot really see what he is doing). Stretching out his hand, he firmly intones his spell: his eyes flare gold and a ball of fire condenses just beyond his fingertips. He hurls it towards the beast.

He is grimly satisfied with the process, because while this is neither the time nor place to be revealed, things are (for _once_) at least following his predictions. The knights are very preoccupied with the beast and everything appears to be going according to the plan…until it is not. Until it is not _so much so_ that he feels like he is getting whiplash. Because just as his fire ball is about to strike the monster, a _lightning bolt_ comes out of _nowhere_ and collides with the beast at the _exact same time_ (and in the _exact same spot_) as his own spell. And it certainly _did not_ come from him. And retracing the striking angle brings him too…

Eyes wide and arm still outstretched, Arthur turns to stare at Merlin, who is gaping back at him in equal shock. In perfect unison they demand incredulously:

"_You_ have _magic_?"

0o0

**Source**: Got the idea from iDaun, in her story "In Which Arthur Finds Out".

A/N: So Arthur was born with magic. Like Morgana's, it did not manifest itself until he was in his teens, at which point he has a minor freak-out and period of denial, but is not trusting enough to tell anyone. Eventually, he begins to study magic on his own and is able to actually do quite well. He isn't the best with the stuff, but he tries hard and is able to achieve a minor mastery in the more subtle attack spells. He somehow manages to hide his magic completely from everyone and repeatedly uses it in combat against the magical creatures which frequently attack Camelot (or did you think that magical creatures that can only be defeated by magical means began attacking Camelot only _after_ Merlin showed up?).

One day, he notices that the magical beast is subdued before he even gets there. This happens over and over again, until he is able to focus just on straightforward attacks and not on subtle, magical ones. Arthur is so relieved that he doesn't have to spend hours sneaking around and studying magical counterattacks that he utterly fails to connect the new magical guardian thing with his recently acquired a manservant. He thus remains oblivious to Merlin's magical abilities.

Since Arthur stopped using magic against beasties (in the belief that his 'guardian' would use it instead) before Merlin really paid enough attention to him to notice, Merlin doesn't have a clue about Arthur's magic. Arthur's ability to spout his father's opinions on magic doesn't help Merlin in this at all.

Perhaps the Great Dragon knew Arthur had magic and laughed uproariously at the whole thing. But I'd like to think that the Great Dragon only sees visions of the future, and does not necessarily watch the present as it happens. And while the Dragon Saw Merlin's magical destiny and Arthur's as the Once and Future King, he (and every other seer) utterly fails to See that Arthur has magic.

So there you have it: all these great and powerful beings manipulating things from behind the scenes based purely on visions, and completely ignoring Arthur except where they need to stick him into some prophecy or other. And Arthur's plotting along and surviving his life, and doing pretty damn well all on his own.


End file.
